


Like a Statue (Look, Don't Touch)

by poselikeateam



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (hinted) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caring Jaskier | Dandelion, Character Study, Demisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Explicit Consent, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Geralt has Anxiety, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia has PTSD, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Good at Feelings, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Touch Aversion, Touch-Averse Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trope Inversion, Trust, Trust Issues, but it gets mentioned, but like inverted, it's more mentioned as a thing that he knows happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25001497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Geralt does not like being touched, except under specific circumstances. It requires a level of trust that he is simply not comfortable giving. Jaskier, though, seems determined to earn it.(An inversion of the touch-starved Geralt trope)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 51
Kudos: 801
Collections: Best Geralt





	Like a Statue (Look, Don't Touch)

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I have a genuine and often debilitating fear of touch. So whenever I see a fic where Geralt doesn't like being touched, but then Jaskier touches him and he realises that he was touch-starved all along, I'm pretty put-off by it. Sorry, it doesn't work that way. If someone is going to touch me, I need to be expecting it, and they have to be someone I trust. I don't even let my own mother touch me from behind. 
> 
> Geralt's fear of touch, like mine, comes from trauma. Unexpected touch is associated with suffering so it freaks him out. If you're afraid of being touched, there's no one special person with magic hands that makes you realise you actually aren't afraid at all and secretly really want the thing you're afraid of. If someone wants that kind of trust they have to fucking earn it.
> 
> I get really heated about it honestly. So this is partly a vent fic, partly a character study, partly a way to work through my own issues, and partly just for fun. 
> 
> As a side note, I turn 25 on the 6th of July, and I have a special fic planned for upload that day. As always, I appreciate all of the support and kind words.

Geralt does not like to be touched.

Being touched means being attacked. There are exceptions, of course — there are exceptions to everything. For example, eating food is usually good, unless it is poisoned. Music can be pleasant as long as it isn't too loud (and Jaskier is the one singing or playing it, though he'll never admit that aloud). Touch _can_ be okay, but only under _very_ specific circumstances.

One: It has to be expected. This does _not_ mean "Geralt hears someone come up behind him, and because he recognises their voice, they are allowed to touch." It has to be expected in that it is either stated ("I am going to touch you, in this specific way") or it is initiated by him. This leads directly to the next point. 

Two: Preferably, touch should be initiated or requested by Geralt. If he is the one to touch, then he knows that there is no ill intent. If he is requesting it, that means that it is someone that he trusts (and there are so few people on that list). He has control over the situation, so there is less that can go wrong. There is always going to be some danger, but if he is in control, then he can minimise it at least.

Three: Sex is an exception, perhaps _the_ exception. It is a physical need, like eating or sleeping or pissing. Usually, he can take care of himself, but sometimes it isn't enough. In most cases, he will pay a whore, though there are those adventurous few who will fall into bed with a witcher for bragging rights alone. Of course, perhaps it is no exception at all, but instead a kind of proof of his limits. After all, sex is something that, at least for him, is very unlikely to not be on his terms. He is large, strong, and feared. People do not try to have sex with him without his permission, whether because they could not overpower him or because they are simply afraid of what he would do to them should they try. He is fine with this. The point is that sex meets each of his prior criteria: usually he is the one to initiate or request this touch, and if he is not then permission is always asked and intent stated before physical contact is initiated.

It is never something that he has discussed, because he has never had to. No one had ever been adamant to just _touch_ him; and while he knows that there _are_ touches that are not meant as attacks — friendly taps, hugs, an arm around the shoulder — he hates them still, hates the very idea of them. He is not used to touch that is good, and he does not _want_ to be used to it. If he is, then there is a possibility that he will mistake a hostile touch for a friendly one, and then he is in danger. 

Being touched, simply put, makes him uncomfortable. He has never had to justify this before, and he never thought that he would. Of course, then he met Jaskier.

Gods, he has never met a more tactile person in his life. Most of the time when Jaskier touches him, the boy doesn't even realise he's doing it. It's just second nature for him. That is fine for the bard, but Geralt is, simply put, not a fan.

He's said, over and over, "Don't touch me," and Jaskier has complied each time, pulling his hand away and muttering an apology as if he really had no idea that he was doing it. The thing is, Geralt is tired of having to ask. They've been traveling together on and off for a few years, now, and while Jaskier is more careful with his casual touches, some of them still sneak in. It has Geralt's heart racing — as much as it can, anyway — preparing his body for battle with adrenaline pumping through him, and even though he knows that there is no fight to be had, his body refuses to listen. And then, as if it isn’t unpleasant enough, the crash makes him feel _exhausted_ and that is _also_ dangerous. 

It's ridiculous. He doesn't react this way to almost _anything_. It's like he's trying to find an assailant and when he can't it only makes him feel more... 

_Anxious_. 

Fuck, he hasn't felt _anxiety_ like this in... a very long time. But anxiety is only over-productive adrenal glands. His body is preparing for a fight that isn't there, and with no outlet for that energy, it simply stays inside of him until it boils over. Fuck.

Jaskier is giving him _anxiety_.

Even after he realises it, it takes him a while to actually say something. He's not used to talking his problems away, so mostly, he's hoping that it goes away on its own. He keeps asking Jaskier to stop touching him, and Jaskier stops in that moment, but he— he keeps _doing it again_. It's like he doesn't realise that Geralt doesn't only mean not to touch him in that _moment_ , but _at all_. 

It all comes to a head one night at their campsite. Geralt is turning some hares he's caught over their fire, and Jaskier is filling the air with chatter. It's all rather... comfortable. He almost _allows_ himself to be comfortable. When Geralt feels a hand on his unarmoured shoulder, then, he _snaps_. 

" _Stop!_ For fuck's sake, _stop it!_ " he shouts, springing back so that he doesn't physically lash out and hit the bard. He almost had done, and he's glad he'd stopped himself.

"Geralt, what's got you so..." Jaskier waves at him, expressing 'panic' with his hands (probably because if he used a word like 'panic' Geralt might actually punch him). 

"I've told you, Jaskier, probably _hundreds_ of times not to touch me," Geralt seethes. 

"And I stop when you tell me to," the bard answers in obvious confusion.

"Yes, but then you do it _again!_ "

The bard stares at him, brow furrowed, as if Geralt is speaking some ancient language he's never heard before. "You mean don't touch you _at all_?"

" _Yes!_ " Geralt answers as emphatically as possible.

"But... I don't understand," the bard admits. Thankfully, he does not seem to be arguing that he has some kind of right to touch Geralt — he wouldn't, the witcher is pretty sure, but he's seen it happen to others, like tavern maids who try to express this same sentiment to rowdy patrons. No, the bard seems genuinely confused, and somehow that is even more frustrating. 

"I. Do. Not. Like. To. Be. Touched." Geralt enunciates each word as clearly as he possibly can.

"Yes, I understand the whole," Jaskier waves towards him again, "witcher, ever vigilant for danger, thing. But don't you... I don't know, turn it off when you're safe?"

"I'm _never_ safe, Jaskier," he answers. How could the bard not understand a simple truth like that?

"Oh," says the bard. He sounds sad, and he’s giving him this _look_ , like Geralt is a baby bird that's fallen out of its nest. It's pity, he realises, and he fucking hates it. 

"Don't," he growls. Don't touch him, don't pity him, don't make a _thing_ out of this.

"But Geralt," he says carefully, "what if I could show you _good_ touch?"

The witcher scrubs at his face with his hands, trying to calm himself down and think of exactly how to explain this. 

"I'm going to spit on you," he says after a moment, "right in your eye. Hold it open for me."

Jaskier, if anything, just looks more bewildered. "What!? Why would you do that?"

"There are people who like that sort of thing," Geralt answers. "Feels good to them."

"Yes, but I'm not one of those people!" the bard answers.

Geralt crosses his arms. Waits.

"...Oh."

There it is.

After that, (well, after Jaskier apologises for not _getting it_ , which is surprising but not unwelcome) Jaskier does not touch him. Occasionally, at first, Jaskier would reach over to him, and before Geralt could flinch away (because he isn't above doing it to prove a point) the bard would snatch his hand back as if burned. He also developed the annoying habit of apologising any time he’d bumped into or brushed against Geralt on accident, but eventually he cuts that out too. Well, 'eventually' meaning 'when Geralt told him that unintentional physical contact isn't his fault by definition and he shouldn't apologise for it', but still, he got the message.

They grow closer over the years. Geralt will freely admit that (to himself, and to Roach, and to _no one else_ ). Growing closer means growing more comfortable with Jaskier's presence, with him as a person. Comfort means a level of trust. 

This is all a very roundabout way of saying that, after enough time had passed, he'd started requesting Jaskier's touch.

Not frivolous touch, of course — he doesn't request that from anyone, except maybe Eskel when they've had a little too much to drink during the winter. No, Geralt requests touch in useful ways. Stitching wounds he can't reach, mostly, which then turns to helping with his wounds whether he can reach them or not. He doesn't ask for help with _all_ of them, or even _most_ of them, but he knows that he can trust Jaskier to do this for him. The bard has steady hands, (of course he does, how else would he play his lute, write his poetry, do his job?) and it is admittedly nice to have someone to help patch him up after his rougher fights. 

One day, of course, Jaskier asks permission to wash his hair. Geralt pauses, for several reasons. Mostly, he needs to process the request. He had told the bard no touching at all, at first, but then started to request the bard tend to his wounds, and now Jaskier must feel comfortable enough with their friendship to ask. Geralt also notes that he hasn't told his criteria for Good Touch to Jaskier — hasn't told anyone, really — but Jaskier has asked him anyway, has somehow figured out how touch can be tolerable. The bard had never assumed, as many would, that Geralt requesting one kind of touch means he is suddenly okay with all of them. He’d _asked_. It isn't a demand, he could easily say no. The ball is in his court.

So, he says yes.

He hears the way that Jaskier's heart stutters, beats a little more quickly, and he realises that this _means something_ to the other man. Of course it does; they've known each other for how long, now? It's obvious that Geralt is showing Jaskier that he is trusted. It makes him feel kind of... happy, almost, to think that earning a witcher's trust means so much to the bard. No, not just a witcher's trust — _Geralt's_. 

_He_ means something to Jaskier. _His_ trust. 

It's a lot to take in.

Throughout, Jaskier talks to him, and hums, and occasionally asks if it's still okay. No one has _ever_. Even Geralt hadn't considered that an okay touch can become not okay and this change will be respected. He never considered that a good touch becoming a bad touch could ever end in anything but violence. Jaskier, though — he acts like he's going to pull his hands away the second Geralt says 'stop'. 

After that, it becomes a sort of habit for them, a ritual. Jaskier helps to wash his hair, combs it, braids it. Geralt is relaxed when Jaskier plays with his hair — and, by this point, it has become just playing. Sometimes, Jaskier will say, "Can I do your hair, dear?" or hint at it with, "Your hair is looking a bit of a mess, you know," and most of the time Geralt will agree. If he doesn't, though? Jaskier doesn't pout or argue like he does when Geralt says he can't come along on a hunt. He doesn't fight it at all. He simply nods, says, "Alright," and goes back to whatever he was doing.

This level of trust is honestly terrifying to him. There's a solid month where he stops allowing any touch again, waits for Jaskier to lose his patience. It never happens. The worst the bard does is make jokes about how bad his hair is going to look if he keeps ignoring it, but that's just Jaskier being a little shit. Each time he asks, it is an offer; there is no obligation to agree. The ball is _always_ in Geralt's court.

So, Geralt starts allowing it again. 

Not once does Jaskier ever demand more, no matter how many seasons pass. (Geralt does not count them — what point is there, when each season that passes means he is one closer to being alone again?) He always asks permission, and when denied, he simply drops it. It’s so _easy_ that, at first, Geralt is suspicious. Then, he is confused. After that, he is afraid. Eventually, he begins to accept it. 

The first time he touches Jaskier in a casual way, he doesn’t even register that he’s done it. It’s just so natural, so _comfortable_. It’s as if Jaskier has taken the time to warm a glacier, and now the waves lap at his feet of their own accord. It is simply the natural progression of things. 

Jaskier says something funny, as he often does, but this time Geralt claps him on the shoulder as he laughs. The look he gets in return is like a startled deer. It’s then that Geralt realises that he has expected Jaskier to respect his boundaries, but now he is not doing the same in return.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sobering immediately as he pulls his hand back. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No!” Jaskier says quickly, still wide-eyed. “No, it’s fine, I was just— I was just surprised, is all.”

“I should have asked first,” Geralt insists.

The bard shakes his head, hair tousling rather fetchingly with the movement. “No, darling, it’s fine. You don’t need to ask. In fact, you have blanket permission to touch me however you’d like, whenever you’d like.”

“You don’t have to,” Geralt begins, but Jaskier waves a dismissive hand at him.

“Not everyone feels as you do about being touched,” he insists. “And it’s fine that you do, by the way! But I don’t. I enjoy being touched. If you want to, I promise, it will be fine — and if it isn’t, I will not hesitate to tell you so. Alright?”

Well, Geralt can’t really fault that logic. Just as Jaskier could not understand Geralt’s dislike of being touched, Geralt can’t understand his love for it. That doesn’t make either of them wrong. 

“Alright,” he finally answers, and the smile he gets makes something twist pleasantly inside of him.

After that, Jaskier still asks permission to touch him, and he still does not ask Jaskier permission to touch in return. It becomes just another part of their dynamic, their friendship. He notices the way that Jaskier’s heart speeds up, just slightly, whenever Geralt touches him at first. It takes a bit of effort on the bard’s part to convince him that it’s because he’s pleasantly surprised, because he _enjoys_ it, and not because Geralt’s touch makes him feel uncomfortable or afraid. 

“You know,” Geralt says one night as he lounges in the bath with Jaskier’s fingers carding through his hair, “you don’t have to ask, anymore.”

Jaskier’s hands still for just a moment, before picking up their previous activity as if it had never happened. “Beg pardon?” he asks.

“Touching me,” the witcher answers. “As long as you let me know it’s you… you don’t have to ask.”

Those hands do still now, and Geralt really hopes he hasn’t said anything wrong. “You don’t need to,” the bard tells him. “I appreciate the thought, but it’s no hardship, asking your permission. You don’t need to give me this.”

Geralt laughs softly, and takes one of Jaskier’s hands in his, still not opening his eyes. He is simply too relaxed — and it is _wild_ that he even _can_ feel this way. “You’ve known me how long? I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

And that’s true. It’s one of his hard boundaries, a line in the stone rather than the sand. His aversion to touch is a moat, and Jaskier is the only one who’s ever been offered the drawbridge. 

Geralt is no fool. He knows what he is offering, and what it means. He knows _why_ it’s something he’s alright with. Jaskier is simply… Jaskier. He’s comfortable, safe. The level of trust that Geralt has in him is almost impossible, something that he’d been trained against. It goes against his very being, something ingrained in him, but it feels _right_. Jaskier is not a buttercup, but a desert flower. It’s shocking to see it, at first, but it simply _belongs_ there. 

They have known each other for years and years and _years_. Decades of friendship, fights, misunderstandings, trust being built, companionship. At this point, the thought of a life without Jaskier just feels wrong. He knows it is not impossible, and he knows that he has lived without the bard longer than he has with him, and yet he cannot imagine going back to that life. Jaskier is like the sun. He isn’t always there, but Geralt always knows that he’ll be back.

It’s something that he’s been turning over in his head for a while, now. He’d fought against it, at first — of course he had. First, he’d thought that he didn’t — and shouldn’t — need anyone in his life. He couldn’t rely on others and he couldn’t have another relying on him. It never made sense, for his lifestyle — after all, who would _want_ to be beholden to a witcher, of all people — of all _things_?

Jaskier would.

He’s always been there. Geralt wants to believe that he always _will_ be there. Just as there was a time before Jaskier, there could well be a time after him, but somehow Geralt knows that the bard — _his_ bard — will never willingly leave him. He has never wanted to need or be needed by anyone, only, he has. Gods, he has, so desperately, but he’d never been _allowed_. The few times he’d come to _want_ someone it had fucked him over so badly that he couldn’t possibly imagine the pain of losing someone he _needed_ or failing someone who needed him. 

People need witchers. They will always need witchers. But people do not need _Geralt_.

The last person he’d _needed_ was his mother, who left him, alone and scared on a dirt road to be picked up by a witcher. That witcher then taught him how to survive, but not how to _live_. Why would someone like them need it, after all? A witcher is not a person, but a weapon, a tool, a thing. 

Jaskier makes him feel like a person.

At first it had been so confusing and then terrifying and now… now it just _is_. It’s no more frightening than the first snowfall, than the flowers blooming in the spring. Trust is dangerous, but how can he not trust the man who has been following him longer than any reasonable person ever would, longer than any human ever could? The man who’d looked at a brooding witcher and seen someone who’d needed a companion, a friend — who decided to _be_ that person for him. 

Jaskier had barely been a man when they’d met, and while he is no longer the wide-eyed lad Geralt had met in Posada, he has never lost that easy kindness. Geralt is aware that his bard is, obviously, not quite human. If he were, he would be elderly by now, but he doesn’t look like he’s even passed his twenties yet. Even so, he has never let the cruelty of the world break him down, the way Geralt had. 

It’s interesting to think about the differences between them. The two of them are like night and day. Geralt is all gruff exterior, hardened by the world around him, hiding something soft. People see him and see something to be feared, even when he risks his life to keep them safe. Then there is Jaskier. Outwardly, he is soft, unassuming, foppish. He is frivolous and naive.

He is, in reality, none of those things. He projects an air of ineptitude so that people will underestimate him. Geralt had, to his own shame. Jaskier is shrewd, perceptive, quick. His soft and colourful clothes are styled in a way to hide the thick muscle underneath. Geralt knows that Jaskier has killed before, has seen it, but he never seems bothered when he has to. He is efficient, lightning-fast like the tales of assassin-bards in the filthy, bodice-ripping novels that Geralt secretly enjoys during late winter nights.

Even having seen Jaskier’s proficiency with a dagger, having seen him slit a bandit’s throat like he was cutting bread, Geralt trusts the bard to help him shave. No one has ever been able to claim that he’d willingly bared his throat to their blade — he doesn’t even go to a barber for that sort of thing. Jaskier, though? He has that trust. He has earned it.

So, yes, he has thought long and hard about this, and he thinks that it is perfectly reasonable to give Jaskier permission to touch him whenever he’d like. After all, he has given Jaskier a level of trust that even his fellow witchers have never earned. This is hardly anything more.

Only, when he says it, Jaskier looks at him as if Geralt has just gifted him the moon and stars. Had he been unaware of the trust that Geralt has placed in him? Has he not realised the place he has in Geralt’s heart?

He can’t kid himself. He knows that he’s in love with the bard. He has been for a while, only, he’s just recently realised it. It hasn’t been long since he’d come to terms with it, with what it _means_. 

It hadn’t taken nearly as long to reconcile with as it might have if he’d realised when it first started. It was a sort of realisation — _oh, I love him_ — and then acceptance. Nothing needs to come of it. He’s so used to nice things being unattainable, to contenting himself with short, infrequent moments of a self-indulgent, fanciful _what if_ , that it really doesn’t _bother_ him that Jaskier couldn’t love him.

He isn’t going to read into the touches. Jaskier likes touching everyone, likes being touched. His touch is gentle and pleasant but it is only that. He isn’t going to pine, to imagine that he could have _more_ , because he can’t imagine there _being_ more than this. He can hardly wrap his head around just how much he’s allowed to have as it is. 

People do that, though. He knows that. As much as he wants to admit how he feels so that it’s out there, to be fully transparent, he knows that Jaskier will read it wrong. After all, Geralt is not the norm. Even when people say they don’t have any expectations, they don’t actually mean that. Geralt is truly content with what they have, but he understands that Jaskier simply wouldn’t believe it. 

He doesn’t want to make the bard uncomfortable. Selfishly, he doesn’t want the touches to stop. It’s not something he’s ever thought before, but now he sort of understands how people can like being touched, and he’s reluctant to give it up. After all, he doubts that there will ever be anyone he can trust the way that he trusts Jaskier. So what would be the point in admitting to it?

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, placing a hesitant hand on his arm. “Everything alright?”

“Hmm,” Geralt answers. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

The witcher pauses, hesitates. (It’s so rare for him to hesitate. A moment of indecision is a moment for an enemy to strike, a moment of weakness.) “You,” he finally answers. 

While he’d decided in the beginning to keep his feelings to himself, and he has done for a good while now, he finds that it isn’t sustainable. It feels like he’s operating under false pretences. He doesn’t like lying, and lying by omission is still _lying_ , the word is right _there_. When people don’t give him necessary information for a hunt, they are being deceptive, so to him this is no different. 

He feels the bard pause behind him, before he goes back to what he was doing. “Me?” he asks as he rinses out Geralt’s hair. “I’m flattered.” 

This isn’t a conversation Geralt wants to have in the bath, and he is clean now. As much as he enjoys a hot bath, wants to linger until the water goes cold and his body protests, this just isn’t the time for that sort of indulgence. So, he stands, dries himself off efficiently, dresses in a simple tunic and trousers. 

Jaskier thinks their conversation is over, it seems. Usually, it would be. Geralt rarely offers information on his own, and Jaskier has not prompted him for it. So, when Geralt sits right next to him, places a hand over the bard’s to still it, Jaskier offers him a questioning look in response.

“I wanted to say something,” Geralt begins.

“Oh, that’s new,” Jaskier teases, though he sounds intrigued, even pleased. 

The thing is, Geralt doesn’t really know how to say this. He’s never really given much thought to it — never had to — so it’s… it’s just not something he’s ever expected, planned for. 

“I don’t say this with any expectations,” he begins. “I don’t want you to think that I have any illusions that something would, or even could come of it. It’s just, I don’t think I can continue like this unless you know. I don’t like false pretenses. The touches, they— they don’t mean anything, beyond what they are. It feels safe when you touch me. It’s nothing more than that.”

The bard offers him a wide smile, but Geralt knows it’s fake. It doesn’t make his eyes and nose crinkle up, like a grin like that should. His shoulders are too tense, and he smells sad, like petrichor and lemongrass. It’s as if he’s trying to make it seem like he finds what Geralt is saying terribly funny, even though it’s obvious that he doesn’t.

“You don’t have to worry about anything from me,” Jaskier says. “I know it couldn’t be more than touch, and I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

Geralt frowns, furrowing his brow. “Jaskier,” he says, “whatever you’re trying to hide, stop it. I still need to tell you. It’s important.”

Genuine confusion crosses the bard’s features. “I thought you just did?” he says carefully. 

“No, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea when I do,” he says. “I don’t want you to think I have any expectations when I tell you that I’ve fallen in love with you. It’s just something I think you need to know. It wouldn’t be fair, to keep touching you, and not tell you.”

The way Jaskier is gaping at him is uncomfortable at best, and stretches on for far too long. Yes, Geralt is used to being stared at, but by strangers for what he is, not by his best friend for what he’s said. Of all the people to render speechless, he never thought he’d manage it with his bard, and he certainly never thought he’d hate it as much as he does. 

Finally, just as Geralt is about to stand up and leave, Jaskier says, “You… I’m sorry, Geralt, but it sounded like you said you were in love with me.”

He almost wishes he hadn’t, at this point. “I did,” he answers, if only because he has already committed himself to this. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, so softly that if he weren’t a witcher Geralt might have missed it. 

He’s just about to apologise, to offer to give Jaskier space, when the bard’s hand rests on top of his, right in his lap. He is startled, almost, by the touch, but for once it’s not bad. For once, it’s a good feeling. Jaskier’s hand is warm, and firm, and lovely. 

“I never thought… Gods, I’ve loved you for so long,” says the bard, voice wavering with emotion. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, I wanted to be your friend, but— oh, darling, I never thought you’d—” 

“Don’t cry,” Geralt says, slightly bewildered. He wipes the tears from Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb, revelling in the softness of his skin, the intimacy of the touch. 

“Don’t cry, he says. As if he hasn’t just said the most beautiful thing!” Jaskier laughs, nuzzling into Geralt’s hand on his face. “You wonderful, stupid, perfect man. I love you so much.”

Geralt has no idea what to do right now. It’s not as if he’s never heard of happy tears before, even though he doesn’t understand why someone would cry if they’re pleased. Jaskier doesn’t sound or smell sad, though, and— and he’s said that he loves Geralt. That’s the hardest part to grasp, to believe. Jaskier loves him. He’s said it _twice_ now. 

Rather than say anything, Geralt leans in close and captures Jaskier’s lips with his own. It’s quick, chaste — just a few moments of their mouths pressed together, hardly even a proper kiss. When he pulls away, Jaskier slowly reaches up and touches his own lips with the tips of his fingers, as if entranced.

“You said I had blanket permission to touch you,” Geralt says, hoping he hasn’t overstepped. “Said you’d tell me if you were uncomfortable. I hope…” 

He doesn’t even get to finish saying _I hope it wasn’t too much_ before he has a lapful of bard and a mouthful of said bard’s tongue. 

“I have wanted this for so long. A bloody _lifetime_ ,” Jaskier murmurs as he presses little open mouthed kisses up and down Geralt’s neck. “Fuck, a normal man would have died from all the waiting. So don’t you _dare_ try to apologise, Geralt of Rivia.”

The witcher rumbles out a deep laugh, burying a hand in Jaskier’s hair just because he _can_. “We’ll have to make up for lost time, then,” he says. “I’ll have to spend another lifetime at least telling you that I love you.”

Jaskier pulls away just long enough to give him the most beautiful grin he’s ever seen. “Oh, that’s just the beginning, my dear witcher.”


End file.
